masters, had, during the
night, killed and buried her child in the garden.

It was the usual story of the infanticides committed by servant girls.
But there was one inexplicable circumstance about this one. When the
police searched the girl Prudent's room they discovered a complete
infant's outfit, made by Rosalie herself, who had spent her nights for
the last three months in cutting and sewing it. The grocer from whom
she had bought her candles, out of her own wages, for this long piece of
work had come to testify. It came out, moreover, that the sage-femme of
the district, informed by Rosalie of her condition, had given her all
necessary instructions and counsel in case the event should happen at a
time when it might not be possible to get help. She had also procured
a place at Poissy for the girl Prudent, who foresaw that her present
employers would discharge her, for the Varambot couple did not trifle
with morality.

There were present at the trial both the man and the woman, a
middle-class pair from the provinces, living on their income. They were
so exasperated against this girl, who had sullied their house, that they
would have liked to see her guillotined on the spot without a trial. The
spiteful depositions they made against her became accusations in their
mouths.

The defendant, a large, handsome girl of Lower Normandy, well educated
for her station in life, wept continuously and would not answer to
anything.

The court and the spectators were forced to the opinion that she had
committed this barbarous act in a moment of despair and madness, since
there was every indication that she had expected to keep and bring up
her child.

The president tried for the last time to make her speak, to get some
confession, and, having urged her with much gentleness, he finally made
her understand that all these men gathered here to pass judgment upon
her were not anxious for her death and might even have pity on her.

Then she made up her mind to speak.

"Come, now, tell us, first, who is the father of this child?" he asked.

Until then she had obstinately refused to give his name.

But she replied suddenly, looking at her masters who had so cruelly
calumniated her:

"It is Monsieur Joseph, Monsieur Varambot's nephew."

The couple started in their seats and cried with one voice--"That's not
true! She lies! This is infamous!"

The president had them silenced and continued, "Go on, please, and tell
us how it all